PATRICIA

My mother, she was a strong woman.

I didn’t think so when I was young.

When I was young, my house was filled with the roaring presence of men. They inspired in me a stubborn sense of pride that made me eager and hungry to prove that I was as strong as they were. It wasn’t hard, when I was young. Boys and girls were similar in strength. Thus a girl could fight a boy and win, when we were young. I was a tomboy, when I was young. For three girls to be raised with six brothers, what else could one expect?

Strength, to me, was a man’s.

For a woman to be strong, I thought, she would need to be like a man. To stand without ever shedding a tear. To dominate unwaveringly. To command a room with nothing but a few calmly spoken words. Strength, to me, was my father.

Not my mother.

Not the woman who would cry in the bathroom when it got too hard. Not the woman whose place was in the kitchen. Not she who sought compassion from those who could not walk a mile in her shoes.

It became hard when I grew up.

Boys and girls were no longer similar in strength. To win was made harder and to grow, called for tears. I hid, as I grew up. Ran from emotions that I felt were weak. Fought with my mother, who wanted her girl to be near her. What else would one expect, from a girl who had grown up alongside her six brothers?

I was a fool as I grew up.

How could I not see? I now wonder.

My mother, she was tall.

Patricia, was her name. As sturdy as a tree that weathered many storms, she had a heart that glowed big and wide like the sun. She loved me as we fought, as I hid and thought her weak.

Love, was my mother.

With love, she hugged me when I first cried, taught me how to cook and look after myself.

Caring, was my mother.

With care, she looked over my homework and explained what eluded me. Intelligence, I then realized, was within me too.

Wise, was my mother.

She looked at me as I grew up. Stared as I pointing at the pretty girl down the street. Frowned when I called her beautiful in a way that made my wise mother worry. There, in an instant, she took away my chance of growing with insecurities. “Beauty,” she told me “is something we have within us all.”

Exceptional, was my mother.

She had turned patience into an art form, my mother. She had waited until the youngest was older. Waited until I was admitted into college. Then, without warning, she went back to school, learned how to drive and to speak English. Her success was inspirational.

Dazzling, was my mother.

When cancer came knocking, she who I thought weak proved me wrong. To compare her to a tree was my mistake. My mother was an ocean. Majestic and serene, she became my ideal. Her head was held high as her cancer worked overtime. Her smile remained large as she was induced with chemo. Her tone had grown softer as she shared with me her wisdom. Her heart reached out to me as she spoke of my future. “When are you going to write that book?” she would ask.

To love and care for others as I do myself. To understand my own worth and thrive under pressure. To inspire and not to take anything for granted... Those, are the things I was taught by my mother.

That, is what I now can’t help but carry with me.